


'Til It's January, I'll Just Go and Disappear

by Overnighter



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Beginnings, Coming Out, Coming of Age, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overnighter/pseuds/Overnighter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon is having a bit of a sexual-identity crisis, so of course the first thing that Brendon did when he found himself alone in a room with Pete Wentz in the Fall Out Boy apartment in Los Angeles was back him into a corner of the kitchen and kiss him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Til It's January, I'll Just Go and Disappear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brandywine421](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandywine421/gifts).



People didn’t talk much about how Panic got their start anymore, at least not the way they used to. Now that they were a little bit older - and they dressed a lot less like they were heading to a rent-boy convention - most of the jokes were about red eyes and jazz cigarettes, not bent knees and back alleys. 

It was a refreshing change. It hadn’t been true, what they said, not ever. Whatever else Pete Wentz was, he wasn’t actually the kind of guy who would let a 17-year-old go down on him for a record contract. Maybe just shy of it, but Brendon has learned that life is a matter of degrees. 

The scary thing was, Brendon isn’t sure that he and Ryan could say the same thing. Or at least the same thing from the other end. 

He knew for sure that Spencer wouldn’t. The night that Spencer had found out that he wouldn’t be at the meeting with them - wouldn't meet Pete Wentz - he had waited until Brent left practice to pick up his girlfriend and leveled them both with a long, fierce glare. 

“If he tries anything, knee him in the balls,” he had ordered. “It’s not – you guys are too talented to spend the rest of your lives wondering if that’s _why_ , if that’s what he wants from you. Someone else will say yes. It just might take some more time.” 

He had sounded angry and certain and – to Brendon’s surprise – he was looking right at Brendon the whole time. Brendon, who didn’t have a crush the size of the Hoover Dam on Pete Wentz; Brendon, who had never once, ever, suggested that he might like to kiss someone with stubble on the lips, at least not out loud. Brendon, who was tired of living on smoothies and day-old sandwiches and sleeping in the practice space he could barely afford. 

He had sighed and nodded solemnly, ignoring Ryan’s furious round of cursing beside him. He had forgotten that so many years of dealing with Ryan made Spencer pretty good at reading other people too. 

But Pete had never asked that – never even hinted – had instead asked questions about their influences and their merch plans, and had waited until Spencer’s parents came home from their PTA meeting so that he could take them all out to Del Taco to celebrate.

Brendon hadn’t found out until much later that Ryan had offered that night anyway - the night Pete signed them - after Pete dropped the Smiths off and left Brendon at his parents’ front door, pretending that he didn’t see him sneak around back to climb into a window. Ryan had offered, and Pete had said no, but gently, and that had been the end of it. 

It had put Pete pretty firmly in the good-guy category, as far as Brendon was concerned. 

So of course the first thing that Brendon did when he found himself alone in a room with Pete Wentz in the Fall Out Boy apartment in Los Angeles was back him into a corner of the kitchen and kiss him. 

He’d had two beers with Andy and Joe in the hot tub earlier, which was two beers more than he’d ever had in his whole life prior to that night, and he while he didn’t feel drunk, exactly – not the way he thought that drunk would feel – he did feel loose and sort of brave. 

So he waited until Pete paused in his conversation – which was, if Brendon remembered correctly, about the necessity of avocado on a mixed-veggie sub – and just crowded up into his space and kissed him. He’d been only a tiny bit taller than Pete at that point, and he remembered that the fridge kicked in right about the time that Pete put his hands around Brendon’s biceps and squeezed, pushing him back carefully until Brendon broke off the kiss. 

“Brendon, you don’t have to...” he started, but Brendon was already trying for round two. “Brendon, stop. You don’t have to do this, and you’re drunk.” He sounded firmer the second time, and Brendon made a little noise of frustration. 

“What if I want to?” he asked. He meant his voice to sound low and sexy, but it was whiny, plaintive. He didn’t want to _talk_ about it. He wanted to try this out, here, far from home, in a city his father insisted was evil incarnate, in a place where no one would say anything about it tomorrow. 

“What if I don’t?” Pete countered, and Brendon backed off immediately. Pete hadn’t made them do anything, hadn’t wanted – this – and maybe he really was as straight as anyone with that haircut could be. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and turned to go, face red, but Pete stopped him with the hand that still rested on Brendon’s arm. 

“Brendon, what are you doing?” he asked, his voice quiet. Brendon’s face flooded with heat and he dropped his head. 

“I just – you seemed like – you didn’t make Ryan – I wanted to...” he broke off, frustrated, and made a little noise in the back of his throat. He didn’t know how to explain what he was thinking, what he even wanted. But Pete Wentz was a good guy, if not a nice guy, and that had made it seem like a better idea than it probably was. 

“Words, Urie,” Pete snapped, but his voice was still pretty gentle, “Use your words.” 

Brendon kept his eyes on his shoes, but he managed to mumble a few complete sentences, at least. 

“When you came to see us, you didn’t – you could have, and you didn’t. Even though you knew we would. You seemed – you seemed safe. I wanted to see. I just wanted to see,” he repeated, feeling helpless. 

He heard Pete sigh, but he couldn’t look up. He wanted to run – to lock himself in the guest bedroom he was sharing with the other guys and hide until it was time to go home – but Pete was still holding on to his arm. 

“Brendon,” he said finally, “is this – are you gay?” 

Brendon shrugged. 

He had no actual idea. That was sort of the whole point. He didn’t know whether he liked Pete – or the idea of Pete – because he’d signed them, or Ryan because he’d let him be in the band, or Jason Cutler because he was Brendon’s lab partner for two years in a row even after he set Mr. Morrison’s sleeve on fire. He didn’t have many friends, and it wasn’t like anyone else in his life was going to explain the difference between gratitude and love. 

“You know I’m not, right?” Pete asked, and Brendon shrugged again. It was hard to tell, from the little he knew of Pete, what was true and what wasn’t. 

“Gay above the waist, though, right?” he said finally, in a small voice. Pete laughed, a tiny echo of his usual donkey bray.

“Man, I am totally over my head with you guys, aren’t I? You don’t do anything the easy way.” 

Brendon looked up at that, his stomach twisting. 

“It’s not – I didn’t mean – Please don’t take it back. I won’t - it was a dumb experiment. Don’t take it out on the guys, please,” he begged. 

He was stupid. So stupid. His father was right. Los Angeles was the city of devils, and he was going to end up broke and homeless and worst of all, he was going to ruin it for Ryan and Spencer and Brent, too. He was completely fucked. 

Except Pete just shook him a little, his hands tightening on Brendon’s arms again. 

“Don’t – stop that. I would never...I don’t give a shit about who you fuck. Fuck tiny little miniature horses for all I care. Actually, don’t, because that’s inherently nonconsensual, but nevermind. My point is that it’ll just make things a little more complicated, that’s all.” 

Brendon took a step back at that, because, as usual, he never thought that far ahead.

“I couldn’t – my family can’t know. This is – you’re the first boy I even kissed,” he confessed, and wanted to die a little. 

He was drunk off two beers, and he just molested his _boss_ in the kitchen, in between the sink and the refrigerator with the tiny little Post-it on it that said _Meat Is Murder, Dumbass_ in cheerful, hot pink bubble letters, and now he was apparently supposed to decide whether or not to tell the whole world about his giant sexual identity crisis. Forget whether or not his family found out. _Ryan_ was going to kill him. 

Pete just laughed, though, louder and longer than before, and hauled Brendon in close to him. 

“Come here, shithead. Let’s help you figure some stuff out.” 

They kissed for three minutes. Brendon knew because he could see the microwave clock behind Pete’s head. At first, it had been awkward – more awkward – with Brendon not knowing where to put his hands, and sort of spitting a little into Pete’s mouth when he meant to suck on Pete's tongue, and with Brendon's feet sort of going to sleep a little because he was afraid to shift at all. Gradually, though, he relaxed into it, following Pete’s lead and getting the drooling mostly under control. 

He would have been okay with doing it for a lot longer, actually, but there was a pointed throat clearing behind them, and Brendon jumped back at the same time Pete dropped his arms. Brendon was afraid to turn around, but it didn’t matter because a second later he heard Patrick’s distinctive voice at his ear, muttering something about jailbait. Brendon felt the blush creeping over his face again as the freezer door swung open, hitting the wall with some force. 

“You are going to go to prison, and we are going to have to hold auditions for a new bassist, and it is going to be a huge pain in the ass. I just thought I’d point that out,” Patrick said. 

Brendon finally allowed himself to turn so that he was sandwiched between Pete’s sheepish grin and Patrick’s unimpressed glare. 

“Um, it was sort of my fault,” Brendon finally whispered. He could at least give Pete that. 

“Of course it was,” Patrick said in an exasperated voice. 

Pete didn’t deny it, but he didn’t press, either. 

“Leave him alone, Stump. He’s just trying to figure shit out,” he echoed. 

Patrick nodded, as though that made any sort of sense to him at all, and finished stuffing ice into his glass. 

“Well, you’ve got about five minutes before your bandmates all figure out whatever you’ve been up to in here. They’ve been wondering where you disappeared to. And that little drummer boy is sort of scary as fuck.” 

He stomped over to the faucet and ran the water for a moment before filling his glass, but he reached out and ruffled Brendon’s hair as he did. 

“Don’t forget to tell him about Gabe. If he’s gonna keep figuring shit out, that is,” he said, and disappeared back down the hallway towards the deck where Brendon could hear Spencer’s muffled, annoyed voice increasing in volume. 

Pete grinned at him, and then pulled him in close for a moment. 

“We should go back out there before someone else comes back and looks for us,” he said, and Brendon nodded and followed him out of kitchen obediently. “But Patrick’s right. Before you go out on tour, we should have a long, long talk.”

**Author's Note:**

> Brandy wanted raunchy sex with a sprinkling of cuddles. And eyeliner. Except that there is no eyeliner. And very little sex. There are cuddles, though.


End file.
